


Weary

by Equinoxe



Series: I never thought about love when I thought about home [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 20:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4363238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Equinoxe/pseuds/Equinoxe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond was fucking done with it, he needed to go home tonight. </p><p>In response to <a href="http://mi6-cafe.livejournal.com">MI6 Cafe</a>'s prompt: Health and Safety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weary

**Author's Note:**

> Heyya! I'm trying to build up a writing habit and reckoned filling prompts is a great way to start. This is the "Health and Safety" prompt of [MI6 Cafe](http://mi6-cafe.livejournal.com) that I just snatched up. Inspired by [The Arts of Domesticity](http://archiveofourown.org/series/280401), I'm also trying to make this into a series. Again, the story is unbeta-ed. Kudos and comments are welcomed. Thank you all for reading!

 

.

 

“007, turn left. Our target is moving south, black Chevy, Italian license plate.”

Bond grunted and shifted the gear, his grip white knuckled on the steering wheel. He hadn’t been able to get rid of people on his tell yet and now the target was being annoyingly shifty.

Going south, _no shit_ , everything was going south.

He stepped hard on his pedal hoping not to drag more attention than anticipated. But one could only wish when one was moving above 120 mph. His BMW sped across the junction to be on the same road as his unsuspecting target.

The clock told him it was seven in the evening, making it five in London. If he clinched the mission now, he could be home tonight. Bond fished his Beretta out of his suit pocket. The panel now said 140 mph.

“007 you’re speeding too fast. Please be reminded that we want the data and the hard disk in perfect condition. Preferably without anyone dying.”

The voice in his comm sounded panic. He would laugh if he hadn’t paid attention so much on aiming to the black Chevrolet tyres.

One shot, two shots, the black sedan swerved and crashed with a street lamp. No civilian in the way. Bond rushed to the car. He had about forty seconds to fetch the thing they wanted. He ignored the long rants in the comm and the unconscious and bleeding target. Thirty seconds was all it took for him to speed his way to the airport.

“Sort my flight back home.” He said and ended the communication.

M was not going to like this, but he was fucking done with it, he needed to go home tonight.

 

.

 

Bond dropped stuffs off at the Quartermaster branch smelling like gunpowder and gasoline. He left the room before anyone could say anything. His knuckles still bled a little and he probably looked like shit. 

Perhaps it would be smart to take a quick shower first. But his wristwatch told him it was ten o’clock already. He really _needed_ to be home before midnight. The drive to home wasn’t long. He parked his car and grabbed a pack of wet tissue to clean up for a bit. The grimace was on his face like an ancient scar.

Only when he was walking down the familiar corridor that it started to feel like coming back home. He slotted his security card in and entered 16 characters passcode. An unruly mob of dark hair was visible from the hallway. The owner turned to face him and Bond could clearly see how a corner of his lips moved up into a light smile.

“James, you’re back.”

A week worth of tension eased out of his body as easy as that.

 

.

 

Q was sitting on a couch with a thick duvet wrapped around him. The telly was on showing an episode of The Big Bang Theory. His favourite mug was being left empty.

“How’s my favourite salesperson?”

Q asked, humour and sarcasm coated his question. Bond answered with a small smile. He moved to touch Q’s forehead, still feverish as he suspected, though the fact that Q wasn’t on his laptop should have told enough.

“You want a cuppa?”

“It would be very nice of you Mr. Bond.”

Bond shook his head and went to set the kettle on. He reached for herbal tea blend he knew was perfect for sick people.

“Anything new in London?”

Q huffed. “Do I look like I could go out anywhere this week?”

“I’d think there were things called Internet and television.”

Q’s eyes narrowed. It reminded him of a cat, but he thought it was not a good time to voice that out. He spooned the tea leaves into a pot they had and waited for the water.

Q started to talk about a hackathon he missed because of the flu while Bond brewed the tea. They fell easily into small talk about nothing and everything. Q’s hair was messier than usual. There were unhealthy bags under his eyes. His posture was sluggish, his words less accurate, and he moved like it was the last thing he wanted to do in the world. Bond tried to push his annoyance in reign. _Oh_ he was annoyed. His grip tightened when he remembered the irrational hatred he had had for the virus that had caused such sickness, and for MI6 for making him leave _his_ flatmate alone in such state.

 _But none of that mattered now_. Because he was _here_ and he was going to _fix_ it.

 

.

 

Q fell asleep on the couch a little before midnight to the background music of The Simpsons. Bond rearranged him to a comfortable pose before taking tea cups and pot into the sink.

The fever was as bad as before he left a week ago. Still, he had some days before they again decided to send him on a mission. He could stay in a couple of days, keep Q fed and well taken care of. And hopefully before duty called, Q would be back to health.

There had always been something about Q that made him want to make sure he was safe, and healthy, and happy. Something that made him want to shield him from all the bloodshed and cruelty of the world.

Q shifted in his sleep and buried his sweat soaked head into the pillow and Bond couldn’t help the warmth that was growing inside of him.

There had always been something about Q.

 

.

 

_It was his last night in Budapest. The mission had been cleared for merely two hours. And his shoulder hurt like a bitch._

_There was an incoming call from a UK number he didn’t recognise._

_“Hello, is this Mr. Bond?”_

_“Yes,”_

_He was cut short before he could ask who was calling._

_“So I saw your advertisement for a flat share,”_

 


End file.
